


A Pair of Socks

by stagprince



Series: Parallelism [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Different takes on the same prompt, M/M, Make-outs, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stagprince/pseuds/stagprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... in which there are gratuitous make-outs (sort of), bromantic shenanigans (... sort of) and John realising that Dave is one half of the pair of socks that is his life (well, <i>he</i> thinks it makes <i>complete sense, jeez</i>!).</p><p>Or: the one that is part of an experiment in different writing styles. Two stories with the same premise and the same events. Two very different results!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pair of Socks

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an experiment that the two of us decided to undertake! We both wrote a one-shot from the same premise and compared the results. The prompt was: "John/Dave; where the two of them tickle-fight until they fall of the sofa and end up sprawled on the ground, John straddling Dave. John kisses Dave; Dave reacts; and then they kiss some more." We thought it was pretty interesting how differently our pieces came out ;)
> 
> This is Tav's version!
> 
> hC's version is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/341271)!

 

John feels the giddiness of his breath, hot and heavy and bouncing entirely too much back in his face. His heart feels like it is lurching its way out his throat and he's crushed up against Dave like space isn't an issue between such hella tight bros (it shouldn't be, and yet something is niggling at the back of his mind, something is really really bothering him, and he's not sure he's completely ready to face it.) He feels the laughter rumble through Dave's chest too, muffled slightly by his crookedly set smirk, little quirk in the corner of his mouth betraying his mirth. The tickle fight had been rough - pillows used alternatingly as shields and weapons, before John had discovered with a boyish sort of glee that Dave was _exceedingly_ ticklish. Ticklish to the point he was basically incapacitated once tickled in the right spots. With a mirthful sort of fury he had descended upon his friend - tickling all up and long his ribs until Dave was a thrashing furious mess of limbs and half stifled tickles.

"Admit it! Admit Conair is the best movie ever!" John had chimed over the crunches of cups and chairs clattering to the ground, straddling Dave's lap as the boys legs kicked the living room bits and pieces all about.

"Fuck... you!" Dave had managed to breathe out and John had just chuckled again.

"Bom bow! Wrong answer dude! Looks like tickle-o'clock is still in session!"

Somehow, Dave had managed to get the upper hand - John was all tall lanky limbs and a strong grip, but absolutely klutzy. Dave had slipped past his guard finally and they had ended up in a tumbled heap to the floor.

Which is where they found themselves at that moment, John still perched atop his best friend like it was the most natural thing in the world, like pinning the guy between his knees was totally bromantic. It takes John a whole moment to notice that Dave's shades have slipped off during their fierce combat, and, for a moment, he is struck by the startlingly red eyes staring up at him. The unnatural colour is a bright, candy red, half squinted from laughter, brows slanted in mock anger. His fringe is brushed up all unruly and fluffy, sitting not unlike a cockatoos crest. John doesn't realise he's laughing until it bubbles, nervous and untimely from his throat. The moment draws on, and he still hasn't moved. Dave is getting a little antsy, he can tell - the laughter is fading, confusion quirking his thick brows slightly (he kind of looks like Leonardo Di Caprio, John thinks with a sudden kind of clarity). But its his eyes that give it away the most - without his sunglasses, Dave is bare as a books open page. Expression flitters through those blood red eyes the fastest, and for a moment, John distracts himself by glancing over the light dusting of freckles that grave his friend's nose and cheeks. So not cool, he thinks. So not cool but they totally sit there across his proud nose and nicely cut cheek bones (like he was a block of cheese but carved up all nice) and a jawline that would make a right angle jealous. Dave is built from straight, sturdy lines all the way from the line of his brows (now thoroughly skeptical) to the straight line of his lips.

John can't help it. His best friend is beautiful in a lot of ways, and it's something he doesn't consider very often. Mostly, he tries to escape it. He tries not to think about the little ways that Dave is beautiful - like his half covered laugh and his tiny little smiles. The way he passes him the last slice of pizza without asking, and the way he marvels at all things obscure just for the sake of their obscurity. The way he gets a tiny line between his brow when he focuses _really_ hard on scratching those records _just right_. Like if he doesn't get the little line furrow, he can't mix his tracks. John sometimes watches him, through jibe riddling lips and half hooded eyes. They lay together like a pair of old, long lost socks who've finally found their pair.

John's pretty sure if life was a washing machine, he wanted Dave to be the sock that matched him. (Even if he was a little short.)

So when he leans down, and brushes his lips against Dave's, his eyes are closed tight. He's not sure what he wants to see and he's pretty sure he's not going to see it anyway, so he kisses him like he does most things in life; blindfolded and kind of wishfully hoping things will turn out right. He thinks he feels the slightest bit of stirring beneath his lips (and he's glad because it had sort of been like kissing a stone before - a stone with chapped lips, suddenly pressed in to the shape of an 'o') before he draws back, all swift and flustered. His glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose and he doesn't bother trying to fix them, glancing over the rims and glad, for once, for his atrocious vision. He can't see shit but he still can't focus his eyes on the blurry blonde and pastel white of his friends face. Oh god oh god oh god. He really hadn't meant to do that, though some small part of him whispers reverently that _yes actually you had and you have kind of been waiting awhile!_ His teeth are worrying his bottom lip, and he feels Dave shift beneath him. Oh shit, he was going to get his ass beaten. He could see it. Dave was totally gonna take his ass on a plate and hand it to him, or maybe forcibly feed it down his throat, or maybe even serve it up with a plate of _you're gonna die, punk_. That was definitely the lame sort of semi-gangster shtick Dave really liked.

He surprises John when he does none of those things.

"Well man that sure was some slip right there. A-grade comedy falling on a banana slapstick style stuff."

There is a gentle sort of cajoling nature to Dave's words - he's trying to sit up, propped up awkwardly on one elbow. John just realises one of his arms is trapped beneath Dave. He only notices because the pins and needles are prickling their way up his skin. Dave adds an awkward sort of forced chuckle like an afterthought, like he knows his joke isn't funny but he's trying to play it off like some huge laugh. Dave is giving him a really easy escape, and John shifts his head so his glasses come sliding back up his nose. He glances at Dave's eyes, and catches them for the briefest moment. He's not sure what he saw, but he kind of thinks he looks hurt.

That can't be right. Dave is never hurt. Not by anything. He's as solid as the surface of an unscratched vinyl record, shiny and new and black. Not giving up any secrets till you play the needle across him just right. Dave is an uncool dude wrapped up in his ego and trying to be cool, and John has always seen that. He has always seen straight into Dave's gooey caramel centre, and he's not sure whether it annoyed his best friend, or pleased him. Most of the time he acted a lot like it was the first. Right now, he wasn't sure how he felt. Dave's face was hard as stone, impassive with a forced sense of camaraderie, and John's not sure how to fix it. He sees the pieces of the moment scattered like broken china before him - their friendship to shambles in the space of an entire second. Dave was ready to let it slide like Dave was ready to let most things slide - he didn't _do_ big shows of emotion. Maybe he didn't do kissing. Maybe he _especially_ didn't do kissing with his best friend.

John was pretty much not sure about anything, and it freezes him in place. The uncertainty spreads his smile all wide and misshapen, and the nervous laughter is back like he's not sure he can make any other sound. Dave stops moving too, and he looks like he almost flinches - almost - but catches himself. He doesn't catch John's gaze again and the mood is swiftly plummeting from light hearted tomfoolery  to sombre in a manner of seconds. John feels like he just gathered up all the shattered little china pieces and hit them _really hard_ with a hammer. He's fucking it up, he's fucking it up _so royally_. This is why he never did anything - hid behind 'no homo bromo!' as he affectionately gave Dave a tight hug, or a joking smack to the nether regions as he passed. He'd laugh off them waking, tangled in each other's arms after a gaming night with a 'totally palssionate!' sort of comment. Usually, when they were wrestling and getting all up and too close for comfort it was just a round of 'brotussling'. But this time, he had no excuses. He was pretty sure a kiss was dead on the mark.

So when his fingers come up to rest sort of awkwardly along Dave's jaw, he stops. He doesn't look up, just sort of stops, clean cut and clear as clockwork. That was Dave, after all. His pulse ran in time with the minute hand in the clock, and he just kept on ticking and ticking at the same beat and rhythm. He was loyal, and sturdy, and dependable. It was time to pay him back, at least a little.

"I-I'm not sorry," John starts, and he's not sure whether he regrets the half stuttered jumble. "I'm not sorry because I meant it, a lot dude, because... Because you're really important to me, and sort of not in a completely friendly way, and I _am_ sorry if I freaked you out or if you hate me or some-" He doesn't get to finish the sentence, because Dave has decided that what he was saying was really really stupid, and John is stupidly glad. They kiss so messily and awfully, like two steam trains coming to meet and lock grills. Dave's Leonardo Di Caprio brows are furrowed in concentration, and he peeks open one red eye - only a sliver - to check everything is okay. John responds with gusto and a bit of tongue, and he's pretty sure that's all the signs they need. Looks like brotussling and half thought up concessions could take the back seat for the moment, as they tangle tightly together - fists in shirts and knees locked up and carpet burns for everyone all round. It is then that John dimly thinks that kissing is awesome, Dave is awesome, and they never put the frozen pizza in the oven so they are gonna have to wait _forever_ for dinner.

It probably wasn't in that order, either.


End file.
